by Cari Quinn
Spreadsheet. Now.
No please, no thank you, not even an “is it ready?” Just barking orders through clipped sentences. Kind of like his voice. At least what I remembered of his voice. I hadn’t heard it since the day before.
I typed back that I needed five minutes. And, of course, there was no answer.
Just orders.
I toggled to the spreadsheet I’d been trying to work on for the last forty minutes. In between calls from three customers who’d been flagged in his almighty list of important clients. He had a list for everything.
And I do mean everything. Times for reports due, times for calls to be made, spreadsheets for specialty invoices for these supposedly special clients. And each of them was different, so I had to learn every one of the layouts.
I recognized the names. The Governor of Boston, The Governor of New York, the freaking Secretary of Defense, and three celebrities who had been in the news lately. What the hell did this guy do for them? It couldn’t be just the pretty glass.
I took a swig from the soda on my desk and frowned when I hit the bottom. Again. I couldn’t worry about the level of caffeine running through my veins at the moment. I needed every last ounce.
I pitched the bottle into the tiny blue recycle bin under my desk, and it bounced out. I sighed and picked it up and put it on top of the seven others.
Oh, boy. Not good.
“How’s it going, Gracie?”
I looked up. “Jack. Hi.” I looked up at the corner of my screen. “Wow. It’s 2:30 already.”
“Yeah, I tried to tag you to come to the conference room with me and Vi, but you didn’t answer.”
I frowned. I vaguely remembered the reminder, but then I’d gotten another message from Mr. Carson and had promptly forgotten about it. “Sorry.”
He sat on the edge of my desk. “Is he keeping you busy?”
I huffed out a laugh. “You could say that.”
“Hey, just the one soda, though. Impressive.”
“Yeah. Told you.” I laughed a little and nudged the recycle bin deeper under my desk.
The door to my boss’s office opened, and I shot up out of my seat. I hit the bin, and the top two bottles rolled out. Jack looked down at them, then peered under the desk and up at me with a quirked eyebrow. “Yeah, just one.”
Shoot.
“Jack, why are you bugging my assistant?” Mr. Carson stood with his arms crossed. The pristine white of his dress shirt pulled tight across his shoulders and arms. He wore a blue tie today—so navy that it was almost black. His face had been almost smooth yesterday, yet was heavy with stubble today.
But it was his hair that made my throat tighten. No. No looking at his hair. Even if it was sinfully thick and completely disheveled from his fingers. At least I assumed there was no one in there with him. How would I know?
Great, now I was thinking about him having some secret tryst in his office while I was toiling away outside.
Tryst?
God. The melodrama overfloweth today, Grace Elizabeth.
My heart thudded double-time in my chest. What the hell was it about this guy? I’d known plenty of good looking guys. Marblehead wasn’t quite as impressive as Martha’s Vineyard, but we definitely had a lot of the wealthy set. And where wealth was, hot trust fund boys followed. Blake was no different.
Right. Totally the same. Good grief.
I frowned when he swiped his palm across his jaw. Had he even gone home last night?
Jack lifted the bag on my desk by the plastic handles. “Feeding her. You’re working her to death, Blake.”
“If she can’t handle the job, it’s not my problem.”
“Well, by law she gets a lunch break, and since she’s been here since seven—I’d say she’s way past lunch.”
“I can eat at my desk,” I said.
Mr. Carson held up a hand. “It’s fine.” He backed into his office and nearly shut the door, but then peeked his head back out. “Thai?”
“There’s some in there for you too.” Jack stood. “Since I know you probably haven’t eaten more than a power bar.”
Mr. Carson opened the door, and dipped his hands into his pockets. He filled the doorway. How? That freaking doorway was huge. The quick flash of our meeting yesterday had me clutching my magic mouse a little tighter. He’d been completely overwhelming. The residual reaction required at least ten Hail Marys and a dip in the ocean.
Thank you, wool sweater and padded bra.
He quirked his eyebrow. “They’re sufficient for energy.”
Jack hung his head. “Sufficient for energy is what you say about food for a mission, not for an office job.” He handed him the bag. “Here. Go show her the seventh floor and feed her.”
“No, it’s okay. I can just eat at my desk. Really.”
Mr. Carson took the bag and went back into his office. The hydraulic hiss of his door closing took the rest of my will. I dropped into my chair. So, I didn’t need food anyway.
I covered my grumbling belly. Now that I’d smelled the food, I wanted it.
The door opened again, and he returned with his suit jacket on. It was the same dark gray suit. At least it looked like it. Impeccably cut, but still the same suit. When he shot his cuffs and I saw that little flash of ink again, I swallowed a groan.
Enemy.
Owns my grandmother’s house.
My house.
Should be my house.
“Ms. Copeland.”
I stood. His voice was far too low, and the way he said my name was an eight on the sin scale.
Wow. Insane much?
He didn’t wait for me, simply kept moving toward the stairs. Okay, then. I didn’t want to be in an elevator with Mr. Carson anyway. I followed him down the stairs, and he stopped at the landing before the next flight. “Was your packet acceptable?”
I took the last stair and gripped the railing tighter. I hadn’t had time to look. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
He frowned down at me. “You didn’t check?”
That was weird. I should have checked. But I wasn’t truly here for the job. I was just killing time—though I should probably take advantage of the benefits while I had them. A few months’ worth of birth control at the very least.
Every dollar counted at the moment.
Yeah, I really needed to check that packet. What if I made enough here to try and afford the mortgage?
And the sky would turn pink tomorrow. Like I could afford the payments on a house by the water in Marblehead.
How long had I stood there not talking?
“I honestly haven’t had time.” I lifted my chin. “You’ve kept me a little busy for a first day.”
“I was going easy on you.”
Somehow I schooled my features not to goggle. “Bring it.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Are you sure?”
“I’m your assistant, aren’t I?”
Shut up, Grace.
Honestly. When his hazel eyes showed interest again, I ordered all of my girl parts to settle down. I was not going to do this. No way, no how. It was a job—and this man was holding my future, even if he didn’t know it.
“The smell of that peanut sauce is killing me. Can we please go eat before you pummel me with work?”
Really, I had to go with pummel? And in a stairwell, with so many walls?
He nodded tightly and headed down the stairs. He held the door open. “After you.”
Not this again.
I sailed through the door and almost made it without touching him. Until he let the door close behind us and his lapel brushed my arm. Thank God it hadn’t been skin. Obviously, I couldn’t take it since my skin was going haywire with an innocent brush of material.
Had he done it on purpose? Didn’t seem likely.
He walked around me and headed for the glass wall, which slid open soundlessly. I forgot about my reaction to him and simply stared into the gallery.
Every conceivable use for glass was showcased her
e. Huge, glossy pictures were mounted to the walls. They showed off mansions with glass fronts, dozens of different verandas, and wide frosted panels that afforded people in the mountains an outdoor space with warmth.
There were a few sports cars with the windows done in the specialized glass with dioramas showing the uses. Protection, safety, anonymity. That was impressive enough, until I spotted the huge clock face.
It looked out onto the harbor but was from the side of the building, so I hadn’t seen it when I’d walked that way. It didn’t seem practical. That was probably why I couldn’t stop staring.
A glass artist’s wet dream.
Before I could think better of it, I traced the copper seams of the clock and sighed. The glass was fashioned in separate panels and cut to fit the design. Beveled glass in pie-shaped sections gave dimension to the piece and was framed by a copper seam that even had lines for each minute of the hour.
Huge copper hands were set to the correct time with a working second hand slowly ticking around the clock face. It had to be eight feet tall.
I turned around to him. His eyes were gold fire, and his fists were clenched at his sides. “It’s beautiful. Superb, actually.” I turned back to the clock. His stare was too intense. If my heart rate went any higher, I was going to need a damn doctor. I tried to even out my breathing, but my chest wasn’t cooperating.
I pressed my hand to the glass.
It centered me. This, I understood. It had been my one constant with all the changes in my life.
“Did you create this?”
I wish I hadn’t asked. I really didn’t want to know. I could deal with Blake Carson, mogul and inventor, but he wasn’t allowed to move into artist.
How was I supposed to hold out against someone who clearly loved glass as much as I did?
Chapter Seven
I turned around, but he was gone. The door to a room on the far side was slightly ajar. I let out the breath that had been trapped by my malfunctioning heart.
It was really better if I didn’t know.
I followed him into the room. He’d unpacked the tins. I touched the side of the one left for me, and it was surprisingly hot to the touch. He sat down and stabbed at his food with a plastic fork.
“I think you have mine.” I wanted to cut my damn tongue off. Who cared? I’d pretty much eat anything from a Thai place.
“Evidently we have the same taste in Thai, Ms. Copeland.”
“Oh.” I pried the cover off and moaned at the scent. Sitting at the tiny condiments table would be rude, so I followed him to the conference table. A screen on the far end of the room told me it was probably for showing off some important movie about how awesome Carson Covenant Inc. was.
I took the complimentary chopsticks and sat down across from him. “So am I to assume you’ve been working in second gear, and I should be very afraid?”
He peered up from his food, the slashing dark brows still furrowed. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “I’ve been without a secretary—”
“Assistant.”
The muscle in his jaw jumped again. I shouldn’t poke the bear, but I couldn’t help it. Not when he was all buttoned up and trying to eat pad Thai noodles with a fork. I clicked my chopsticks at him. “Much easier.”
“I don’t use them.”
“Don’t use them or don’t know how?”
“There’s a difference?”
His voice was icy and made me want to poke at him all the more. I got the feeling that people were afraid of him. Part of me was as well, but evidently, I’d drowned that bit of self-preservation this morning.
Or maybe it was the six bottles of Pepsi Max over quota for the day. Whatever it was, my foot bounced under the table as I scooped up the thinly sliced chicken and tilted my head to eat it as daintily as possible.
He swore when his fork snapped.
I stuck my chopsticks in my food and stood up. I rummaged into the bag.
“I don’t know how to use them,” he said through his teeth.
“Now, now. You can learn.” I snapped them apart and rolled a rubber band off my wrist. I habitually put them there for either my hair or when I was working in my shop. They were good for holding glass in a lead channel. I wrapped it around the end and handed them to him.
“Isn’t this what you do for a child?”
“It’s a learning tool, Mr. Carson. There’s no age limit on learning a manual task.”
His nostrils flared, but he picked them up.
I plucked mine out of my noodles and showed him. “See? All you need is a little opening and then you can —there you go.”
He picked up a wad of noodles, and they fell free before he got them to his lips.
I laughed.
He answered with those raven dark brows snapping even lower.
“I’m sorry. I’m just remembering when…” I swallowed and let my words trail off. I remembered the cold winter day my grandmother had taught me how to eat with them. It had been a simple bowl of ramen at the time, but she was determined to show me.
“When…”
I cleared my throat. “Not important. Noodles are easy. It’s rice that’s hard. Try again.” I clicked the tips together.
This time, he managed to get few noodles in his mouth. After five minutes, he was far more dexterous and packed away half the tray.
Remembering my grandmother dampened my appetite a little, but I knew I needed the fuel. I managed to eat half of mine as my boss finished off his.
He stood. “Do you want to save this?”
I shook my head.
He took my tray and dumped both of them into the bag with the chopsticks. “I have three phone calls from the West Coast. I’ll need your help.”
I nodded and rose. “More spreadsheets?”
“Among other things. There’s a folder full of details under Donovan Lewis.”
Why was that name familiar?
“He’s based in California, but he has a building in New York City as well. He’s an important client. I need to make sure the meeting goes well. If he likes our work, then it will open up a client base in the Los Angeles music scene.”
I followed him out. “I’m not up with the music scene, but I don’t think that’s why I know his name.”
“He’s a venture capitalist. You might know him from a few of the startup companies he’s been involved with. Most recently the car app that everyone uses in the city.”
“Oh.” I’d definitely used that app a time or twelve.
“Yes. He’s a wealthy and connected man. I need to make sure all the data I have is up-to-date and correct. So for the rest of the afternoon, I need you to verify that my research is still valid. I pulled the data ten days ago.”
“And you think it will be out of date?”
He held the door open. “You’ll learn that in the security business, one day is out of date, Ms. Copeland.”
The gallantry was going to be the end of me, I swear it. Just when I thought I was getting on an even keel with him, he was in my space. Today, the spicy scent outweighed the citrus. I didn’t know if that had anything to do with the food we’d just eaten, or it was his mood and temperament leaking through his pores.
I scooted through the door, making sure I didn’t touch any part of him this time. When I got to the stairwell, Jack was coming down.
“There you two are.”
Mr. Carson crowded into my back, and my whole body went hot. I tried to move, but Jack filled the landing. Two men over six feet tall was just too much male in a tiny stairwell. I tried to move to the side and only made it worse. My butt slid across the front of Mr. Carson’s slacks.
He went completely still behind me, and I could feel his breath along my ear. Good grief, had my knees actually turned to water? Or was that just the first stage to suicidal tendencies? The urge to toss myself out the window into the harbor was strong, because no.
No way was I going to be attracted to my boss on top of the clusterfuck of my life.
&nb
sp; “Lewis’s assistant just called—he wants to know if we can move up the meeting to…” Jack lifted his hand to show his watch. “Now.”
“I haven’t even prepped Ms. Copeland about him.”
When he said my name like that… Yeah, that was going to follow me home and into the dark.
I moved around both men and started heading up the stairs. “What are you waiting for, gentlemen?” I looked down at both of them. Jack with his fallen angel good looks and Mr. Carson with his brooding nature lit with that little bit of warmth in his eyes.
Why, oh why, did I have to go for the brooder? Jack would have been the easier choice.
Mr. Carson’s fingers fisted around the bag as he tipped his head up to meet my gaze. His hazel eyes edged more into an aged scotch color right now. The kind that burned going down my throat and heated my belly.
Okay, the timing on my dormant sexuality was so far past inconvenient I couldn’t even put it into words. So, I ignored it.
Good plan.
I turned around and flew up the rest of the steps. I knew someone was behind me, but I kept moving forward. A hand slapped against the door before I could open it.
I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Mr. Carson.
“You don’t have your badge yet, Ms. Copeland.” His scent blanketed me and tossed my system into chaos. Like the storm coming off the water this morning, he was a cold front slapping into a warm one. The thunder was his voice, and I was the rocks trying desperately to hold out against the waves.
And the water was rising.
Chapter Eight
The artificially clean air of the office was just the oxygen I needed. I hurried through the door and to my desk. Blake seemed to be in work mode as well, thank God. I slid into my seat and tapped my mouse until my screen came out of hibernation.
I typed in my password, popped open folders, and a browser. I scanned his prepared file and did a quick web search to make sure nothing had hit the social media pages that we’d be surprised about.
He passed me. “There’s a laptop in the drawer—bring it into my office.”
I looked up. “Into your office?”
